


the quiet things that no one ever knows.

by bossy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, rape mention but no explicit rape, this is possibly triggering, written in 2008 or so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 06:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18405161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bossy/pseuds/bossy
Summary: Engulfed in Aberforth’s wet-goat scent, vibrations from his hands pounding on the piano keys reverberating into every bone of her body, she closes her eyes and knows everything.





	the quiet things that no one ever knows.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2008, before I saw any of the new movies. I still haven't seen them, actually.

Ariana is sitting curled up next to Aberforth on the piano bench when she first realizes she will die. Engulfed in Aberforth’s wet-goat scent, vibrations from his hands pounding on the piano keys reverberating into every bone of her body, she closes her eyes and knows everything. She can feel the mice skittering through the walls, one of the spiders in the cellar twisting through its web, the dishes washing themselves in the kitchen, the water dripping methodically from the leaking bathtub. She can feel Aberforth’s fingertips pressing against the keys, and, upstairs, she feels Gellert leaning too close to Albus, his breaths slow and hot against Albus’ neck. She feels Albus’ own breath catching, fingers brushing against Gellert’s wrist, and Gellert’s mouth turning up into a smile.

This is the same untrained, primal magic of the restless, agitated whinny of horses before a storm, the way cats hide themselves days before a natural disaster, the sharp tang a selkie woman feels when she has strayed too far from her seal-skin. Ariana is a master of the instinctual magic that needs no wand.

She squeezes her eyes shut, and feels their lips meeting, feels Albus’ fingers tangling in Gellert’s hair–-a quick pant of breath, shifting–-and Gellert’s hand around her brother’s waist and crawling up to caress the bottom rung of his ribcage. She remembers the groping, dirty hands of the muggle boy. _Show me or I’m doing it_ , he said, scratchy gravel scraping against her back, his friends holding her down and Ariana gasping for breath, _I can’t do it; let me go; mama, please, mama_.

Gellert has the muggle boy’s hands.

“Ariana, Ariana,” Aberforth is cooing, “I didn’t mean-–next time, tell me if I’m too loud, you know how I get–- _“_

She is sobbing and clings to his heavy, muddy coat. It is the time of year between spring and fall, and the dusky time just after sundown, and none of the candles have been lit. It is all too cool and dark, and the sudden silence startles her. He pats the top of her head, like Albus’ hand in Gellert’s hair, and she begins to shake even harder. Aberforth sets the wooden cover down over the keys, gently, the way they covered her mother at the funeral.

“Shh,” Aberforth says, oblivious to the two boys laughing between pants upstairs, lips meeting shoulders and collarbones and Gellert’s mouth against Albus’ ear, whispering something that makes them both smile like they are drunk on firewhisky. Like her father, drunk and shouting, _those good-for-nothing muggles, I’ll get them if it’s the last thing I do_ , and her mother whispering, _Percival, Percival, listen to me–-_

_You deserve this, oh, you deserve it, don’t you, you worthless freak, your mum stole you from the circus, didn’t she, made a deal with the devil, didn’t she-–_

“Bloody bastard son of Merlin,” Aberforth is hissing, “oh, bloody, Ariana, it’s all right, I wasn’t going to hurt you!”

He steps off the piano bench, leaves her shivering and alone, and she sees the hole she has blasted in the piano cover, sees the shattered white keys on the floor and the jagged piece of ebony lodged in Aberforth’s arm as he fumbles in his pocket for his wand, still cursing under his breath. There is a bruise on his forehead, too, and he is grimacing.

They are coming downstairs.

“I’m sorry,” she tells Aberforth, and she lunges toward the staircase. She knows the way Albus smiles as Gellert’s owl taps at his window, his contented sigh as he drops down to the chair in the sitting room after Gellert leaves for the evening. She knows the slanders Gellert has scratched into her brother’s parchments. She knows the way he has chuckled to himself, alone on Albus’ bed, as Albus hummed, unsuspecting, in the next room. She knows the way his fingers cross behind his back, the tight, twisted expanse of his smile.

Gellert feels wrong, and Ariana is pleased with herself when the floorboards loosen under him as he steps on them, when her magic pushes him down into the damp wine cellar with a surprised yell. Albus is thrown aside, too, deep blue bruise forming on his shoulder, and he pulls himself up and goes to her in one long stride, grasping her shoulders hard.

_Show me or I’ll do it, I’ll do it._

“Ariana,” he says, forcefully, “Ariana, you need to stop this. I know you couldn’t attack those muggles, but you don’t need to take it out on your own family!”

In Albus’ face, there is a shadow of the muggle boy, too. If Gellert has the boy’s hands, Albus has his eyes, ice cold and unforgiving.

“He’s not my family,” she says, louder than she should, watching the candles falling from the wall and flying down to join Gellert in the abyss. He stares up at her incredulously, blood dripping down his cheek.

“He’s the one hurting my family.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I entreat you, Gellert, please understand–-“ Albus tries to explain, looking lost, tame. “She’s never been quite the same after the attack–-“

The magic is still pulsing inside her, and she tries to take a deep breath to calm herself, but it throws Albus off her again, Albus limp on the floor like her mother, and she runs before it hurts him again.

 _He’s the one hurting my family, not me, mama, please, mama_.

“Ariana,” Aberforth calls from the sitting room, “wait, please, how about you come with me and see the baby goats–-“

_Ariana, your father did a very brave thing for you._

_Ariana, he isn’t coming back._

_Ariana, is it? You scum. You bloody ungrateful bitch. I’m not bloody stupid. I said show me. What, are you crying? Ain’t given you nothing to cry about yet. Show me or I will._

“Ariana, stop it, please stop, it’s me, it’s your mother, Ariana, please calm down–-“

“Immobulus,” Albus says, and she stops moving.

She stops moving, but she can still feel the insect creep of Gellert climbing up from the cellar, the long, naive gaze Albus sends him as their eyes meet and the way he will touch his shoulder, lightly, when they meet again, the way Gellert’s smirk will widen, and she wishes she could cry.

She knows she won’t be afraid, when this happens again.


End file.
